Quotes About Tranquility

The branches of most of the trees were bare now. He had never minded bare trees. He could see the sky through them. He had often lain along a stout branch, gazing upward, dreaming of worlds beyond the one he inhabited.

It was almost as if she had been lulled into a sleep long ago and had been hovering on the brink of waking but had resisted doing so. Sometimes it was more comfortable to remain asleep than to be awake.

She fled up the stairs to her room. But her room did not provide sanctuary enough. She needed to be quite alone. She needed to be somewhere where she could recollect herself and find some peace.

She tried not to think. She tried to allow the quietness and the dusk to soothe her and heal her.

She wished and wished that he had not come. She had thought all that turmoil behind her. She had achieved a hard-won measure of tranquility in the past three months. She did not want it all destroyed. She did not want another three days with him. And the inevitable parting again. She did not believe she could hold on to her sanity if she had to go through all that again. If! She was already going through it.

She must not let him ruin the tranquility of her life again. She would not let him do so!

You cannot fail to enjoy yourself there and forget all your woes.

Go back to sleep. There will be no more dreams.

the slightest noise

in the storm of emotions, we can create a small, peaceful sanctuary within.

The Old Poets Of China Wherever I am, the world comes after me. It offers me its busyness. It does not believe that I do not want it. Now I understand why the old poets of China went so far and high into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.

The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth, it can lie down like silk breathing or toss havoc shoreward; it can give gifts or withhold all; it can rise, ebb, froth like an incoming frenzy of fountains, or it can sweet-talk entirely. As I can too, and so, no doubt, can you, and you.

I do not live happily or comfortably With the cleverness of our times. The talk is all about computers, The news is all about bombs and blood. This morning, in the fresh field, I came upon a hidden nest. It held four warm, speckled eggs. I touched them. Then went away softly, Having felt something more wonderful Than all the electricity of New York City.

The water, that circle of shattered glass, healed itself with a slow whisper and lay back

Clear pebbles of the rain

Oh, I would like to live in an empty house, with vines for walls, and a carpet of grass. No planks, no plastic, no fiberglass.

When I have to die, I would like to die on a day of rain— long rain, slow rain, the kind you think will never end.

And maybe there will be, after all, some slack and perfectly balanced blind and rough peace, finally, in the deep and green and utterly motionless pools after all that falling?

Wherever I am, the world comes after me. It offers me its busyness. It does not believe that I do not want it. Now I understand why the old poets of China went so far and high into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.

that love us, that is asleep now, and silent- that has turned itself into snow.

There was silence.

I've enjoyed hanging around in rooms doing nothing much, and look, I get to do it after I die.

A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his tranquility.

I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquilize the mind as a steady purpose - a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.